


untamed bond (an ending)

by wolfiery (asswords)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dark, Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Future, Guilt, Literary References & Allusions, Metaphors, Poetry, i really wanted to play with the fact that they understand each other so well, in the form of a ten part poem, involves 2x16 and post-ep as well i made it a story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asswords/pseuds/wolfiery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a leader is supposed to forge a lock made from hell and brew a tumultuous fire in the eyes, and this is the leader who asks their warriors to die for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untamed bond (an ending)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, WOW, wow, that episode was fucking incredible to me. Jesus christ, it was unbelievable and perfect is so many fucking ways??? Like, they nailed all the things that are most important to me when it comes to Bellamy and Clarke. 
> 
> And okay, so this poem, I thought of a lot of things, really, and I just want to have you understand where I'm coming from. First of all, I tried to make this other-worldly on purpose, but still have you be able to picture the scenes, so it really is just a super short story that has a poetic sound to it? But anyways, I really pulled from Lexa's quote about warriors, but managed to twist it so that we see what Clarke has sacrificed, what the warrior asks for in return, and yeah, to me, I also tied it with Octavia's quote: "Look at the thanks he got." Because to me, Bellamy did get thanks from Clarke in her protection.
> 
> So here's an angsty poem about it.

_i._

a leader is supposed to forge a lock made from hell and brew a tumultuous fire in the eyes, and this is the leader who asks their warriors to die for them.

 

_ii._

shamefully, running through the dark and misted tree branches, the warrior will ask something in return, he is a gentle demon, a heart and drum steady and his gaze never meant to bare, “lose your soul for me.”

 

_iii._

it is effortless to do so, he is giving and kind, makes the blood in her nails contrast dull in the moonlight, it remains eternally, and he is the blinding sun demanding payment of a smile and slow approaching joy.

 

_iv._

but her feet move beneath her, and the monster of the mother exists in the bleak, unmoving oceans, and payment returns in the pieces shattering, in protection beyond all costs, like masses of burning people.

 

_v._

she wanders blindly, and takes his eyes right with her, midnight shining above, she is alone and brutal, a reckoning thunder of betrayal and mistrust, aims for the throat and cuts the words deep, the sound of love echoes in her ringing ears and she is thrown head underwater to the slip of his name.

 

_vi._

she still thinks that he will catch her storm even among the brightest forest blazing, until everything she’s touched is scoured, until she becomes the same as a hopeful boy with a mutilated, “i did it for you”, but it doesn’t erase the composure, of his grateful, “you protected me.”

 

_vii._

bellamy is the name of exhaled prayers in the warpath of the woods, the places no one is supposed to venture, she knows this because she prays with survival in her veins. she doesn’t recognize the curve of mercy when the explosion of her fists and thunder become the same, and the rain follows after like steaming guilt.

_viii._

he is the warrior who never listened, who took orders away from women and leaders with open expecting hands, who followed them past their due and enters the trees with the same grunt of a speared soul, blood cakes his face but it is never his own, he turns the world around and laughs, ugly and fiery, and says, “what are you doing here?”

_ix._

he twists her around a shaking axis, words leave the scar above his lip like he knows to want nothing from her now, he is refined and grown, a soldier of his self-created chaos, and worrisome loneliness festers up within her, while pride paints a mask.

 

_x._

“come back” crackles in the fire, and there is no please, and she is not a prayer, but his eyes still hold the intensity like the rivers of the universe, she says “yes” and means no, he takes the lock she made and the questions of a leader, and her hands reach out for empty air, he does not take it, and she thinks, “i did it all for you.”


End file.
